


I Go Now to the Halls of Waiting

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Aftermath of Violence, Battle of Five Armies, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Deathfic, Dragon Sickness, Durin Family, Durin Feels, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fíli Feels, Fíli and Kíli Brotherly Love, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character Injury, Past Character Death, Protective Fíli, Serious Injuries, Thorin Feels, Uncle Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fíli's last words had been for his family. He died sending them away, wishing desperately that they would be safe. When he wakes in the Halls of Waiting, that knowledge is a comfort to him. He is dead, but his brother and uncle survive. Or so he thinks.<br/>This is what happens when first Kíli and then Thorin join Fíli in death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brothers

When Fíli woke and did not feel pain, he knew that he was dead. He had suspected it for a while. Ever since he had sent Kíli away, actually. He had known he was as good as dead then. At least it had been quick. Painful while it lasted, but quick. And there was no more pain now. He had been able to tell them to run. Kíli, his little brother who should never have seen such pain and destruction. He was safe. And Thorin, his uncle... In the end he had been his uncle once more, not just his gold-crazed king. They were safe. Even their little burglar who had been more courageous than all the rest of them combined. They were all safe now. Dwalin would see to that. Fíli’s pain was forgotten now; his death had not been in vain. It had all been worth it. 

When Fíli tried to stand, he found that his legs were trembling. While death seemed to heal all wounds, it apparently did take some getting used to. It was a curious thought – being dead. Fíli leaned against a stone pillar. Not the green marble of Erebor, but a light-grey stone that he did not recognise. He assessed his own body. He was dressed in a simple tunic, not the filthy garments and rent armour he had been wearing during the battle. He tentatively touched his torso. There was no pain as such, but the skin was tender and breathing still came with a slight sting. He shuddered as he remembered what had happened. His final moment, the moment when he had died. It had been gruesome. Maybe some would say that his death had been unworthy of a son of Durin, that he had been nothing but a trophy. To Azog, maybe. But to those that really mattered, he had been a warning. The one who drew Azog out of hiding. Fíli did not regret his death. It was of little consequence. His brother and uncle had survived. That was what really mattered. The line of Durin was unbroken, secure in the hands of Thorin, King under the Mountain, and Kíli. King Kíli, eventually. Oh dear, too bad he would not be around to witness that! Fíli chuckled to himself, but soon stopped as his sore lungs protested the strain. Then he just smiled. It had all been worth it. His brother would live a good long life, the hope and future of Erebor. Now there was a thought — Kíli, King under the Mountain. 

When Fíli first heard it, he thought it was just the wind. But it was not. It was a moan. A moan full of so much pain that it simply should not exist here, in the Halls of Waiting. By all accounts, as well as Fíli’s brief personal experience, life — or rather, death — was relatively free of pain here. But it was a moan. Fíli turned. There was another, on the stone bench opposite the one he had woken up on. A dwarf, lithe, dark-haired. No. Not him, no, not Kíli! He ran, strength returning to his legs in an instant, and was by his brother’s side in a heartbeat.

“I told you, I told you to run. I sent you away. You were supposed to be safe. Alive. You can’t be here, Kíli. You have to live. You can’t...” Fíli whispered frantically as he cradled his brother’s prone body against his chest. He was crying. Tears slid down his face and he did not wipe them away, simply letting them fall onto his brother’s hair. Not Kíli. He was not supposed to be here. Kíli was supposed to live. Kíli was supposed to be cheerful and reckless and... alive. He was breathing. Long, deep breaths as if he was merely asleep. Kíli had always been a heavy sleeper. He was wearing an identical blue tunic to the one Fíli had found himself to be dressed in, a pair of breeches and light leather boots. He looked so young. He was so young. Too young for this. Too young to die. Then again, they were all too young to die. The children of Laketown. The Dwarves and Men that had fallen around them on the battlefield. Even the Elves. Nobody was ever old enough to die. But die they did. Even Kíli. 

When Kíli moaned again, Fíli was there. Holding him, supporting him, whispering words of comfort into his ear. Though what comfort there was now that they were both dead, he did not know. He had always protected his brother. From monsters under the bed, from dreadful schoolwork and tedious chores, from their uncle’s wrath, from all the dangers on the road. And now he had failed. He had led his brother to his death. The least he could do now was to make his death as comfortable as possible. A comfortable death. He seemed to be adapting quickly to this new reality. 

When Kíli woke, it was with a shout. He struggled against Fíli’s embrace, eyes wide, terror on his face. Fíli comforted him, said sweet little nothings, told him he was safe now. He supposed they were safe. Dead but safe. Finally, Kíli’s eyes met his. He stopped his struggle, went limp, jaw falling open. 

“No... T-... Fíli,” he finally said, voice raspy. His hand flew to his chest. A groan. They had that in common then. Oh, how Fíli longed to be able to avenge his brother. Nobody caused his brother pain without punishment. Nobody.

When Kíli sobbed, Fíli just held him closer. They cried together. From exhaustion, for what they had lost, for what they still had. Each other. They had each other. They cried. When their tears subsided, Fíli helped his brother sit up. They sat next to each other on the stone bench, hands clasped. They were together. Fíli looked at his brother. He was so young. A little pale, but that was probably to be expected. There were no wounds to be seen. All was well. Except for the fact that he should not be here at all. 

“You... why? How?” Fíli asked clumsily, clutching his brother’s hands. “You should have lived. I sent you away, I did not let you go where Azog was. You should have lived!”

“I... messed up...” Kíli said, averting his gaze. 

“You did not,” Fíli assured him. Slowly, gently, he extracted the tale from Kíli. It was not a very long one. Certainly not a good one. His brother’s death — there was nothing good about that. He had failed when he should have protected him. Kíli looked dejected and Fíli could not bear to see his brother so downcast. It was not Kíli’s fault. It was not his fault that he had died. He brought their foreheads together. They were still brothers. They were still together. And he would not fail Kíli again.

“Sounds like you left behind a broken heart,” Fíli said with a smirk. “A pretty maid by your side, there’s somebody weeping for you!”

“Sure is,” Kíli said, grinning widely. “Pity the same can’t be said for you!”

“Such a shame,” Fíli agreed easily, happy that his diversion had worked. He did not mind Kíli’s teasing. He did not mind that there was nobody mourning him. He only regretted that they had had to witness his death. 

“Uncle Thorin will probably grumble about your death for a bit,” Kíli said with a wink.

“Is he...” Fíli could not bring himself to ask the question.

“He is well,” Kíli confirmed. 

When they rose, Kíli was very unsteady on his feet. Fíli supported him. They walked slowly, out into the corridor, long and light and finely hewn from the grey rock that Kíli could not name either. They wondered why they were all alone. Certainly, there must be other new arrivals. They had seen them fall all around them. Had seen the blood. The black blood of the orcs. The red blood of Dwarves, Men and Elves. They all bled red. They all bled together. They all died together. But apparently they did not wake together. At least the dwarves should have been here. 

When they reached the tapestries, it dawned on Fíli. This was theirs. Their space, their story, being woven in never-ending tapestries. The Fall of Erebor was there, then the wandering of their folk, faces that must have been their grandfather and great-grandfather. The war against the orcs was depicted as well, a mass of fighting and death. Azanulbizar ended in the funeral pyres. Fíli gently stroked the grey smoke in the fabric. It was soft to the touch, the thread smooth and cool. They could see the Ered Luin. Fíli appeared, then Kíli, the heirs of Durin. Their people prospered. A blond dwarf, prominently featured. Kíli stared at him, gasped, looked to Fíli for confirmation. Only when he nodded did his younger brother step forward to touch the dwarf’s face. Their father. 

When they came close to the end of the tapestry that seemed to be continuously woven by invisible hands, they came upon familiar scenes. Their quest. All their many adventures were depicted in countless small scenes: Laketown, the death of Smaug, then Erebor. The armies. The battle. So much death. Fíli’s came first. Kíli averted his eyes, clutching Fíli’s hand tightly. Fíli squeezed his shoulder, but then became mesmerised by the next scene. Kíli, on the ground. So young. So sad. So broken. 

“Thorin!” Kíli cried, as the invisible fingers wove a new picture in front of their eyes. It was indeed Thorin, though the figure was small and indistinct. It could be no other. He was fighting Azog. Fíli clenched his teeth. Kíli’s grip on his hand tightened. They waited, watching the scene take shape before their eyes, slowly, so slowly although the invisible weaver was nimble indeed. White thread again. Azog. 

“Yes!” they shouted as the shape of the giant orc appeared. Crumbled. Broken. Dead. 

“He did it! He avenged you!” Kíli danced a little jig, then embraced his brother. “Look at that! The line of Durin — triumphant!”

“Indeed. Look!” Fíli said with a smile. The next scene was taking shape, a wide panorama, overlooking the battlefield. The sky was clear now. 

“Are those the eagles?” Kíli asked.

“Yes,” Fíli confirmed. “I think they turned the tide in the battle. It looks like the orcs are scattered, they might even be withdrawing.”

“There’s Thorin!” Kíli exclaimed. Indeed. Their uncle was facing away from them, but it was clearly him, overlooking the battlefield from Ravenhill, alone but bathed in glorious sunlight.

“He lives,” Fíli breathed. “Our line continues.”

“Well,” Kíli said with a snicker. “He’ll have to actually work for that then. Thorin needs to produce a new heir! No cop-outs this time around!”

“Oh, I had not thought of that,” Fíli allowed, feeling suddenly guilty for leaving his uncle in that situation.

“Just imagine,” Kíli said, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. “Thorin has to find himself a dwarrowdam now. He will have to court!”

“The poor dam,” Fíli said seriously. Then they both erupted into laughter. Thorin. Courting. Ideally one of their mother’s friends, a lady with a will of iron, a quick wit and some very firm opinions.

“I hope that will show up on the tapestry,” Kíli gasped when he had recovered a bit. “Wouldn’t want to miss that! The battle will seem like a stroll across a summer meadow to him by comparison.”

“Kíli. Look,” Fíli interrupted his brother’s hilarity. His eyes had been drawn back to the tapestry. A new picture was being woven. A head came into view. Short, unruly brown hair. The figure of their hobbit. Bilbo. He was crying. He was holding something. Someone. 

“Thorin!”


	2. Nephews

“Thorin,” Fíli whispered hoarsely. “He’s here.”

He looked at his brother. Kíli seemed caught between shock and joy, his eyes wide, mouth agape, but somehow there was still a slight smile on his features, a hope, and a joy. Fíli squeezed his hand briefly and gave him an encouraging smile. His mind was racing. Thorin could not be here; Thorin had to live. But somehow, deep inside, Fíli knew that Thorin was here, that Thorin was dead as well. He took a deep breath. It was his duty to welcome his king and to make sure that he was... well, as well as one could be in death. It was his duty as Thorin’s... not Thorin’s heir. There was nothing to inherit now that they were here, so he was an heir no longer. It was still his duty to look after his Thorin. If Thorin would have him. They had not exactly parted on good terms. Fíli squared his shoulders and turned to walk back down the long corridor past the tapestry that depicted the history of their line, back to the small chamber where they had awoken.

“Fíli! Fíli!! Fíli!!!”

Death had certainly not muted Thorin’s voice. It sounded hoarse, but had lost none of its volume. He was bellowing as if he was still on the battlefield. He sounded angry. Fíli had defied him. They had never had a chance to talk about that, to reconcile if such a thing was still possible. Fíli slowed his steps, uncertain and wary of that encounter, but it was no use as at that moment Thorin stepped out of the room and into the corridor. He looked pale and was clutching his ribs, unsteady on his feet just like they had been right after they had awoken here in the Halls of Mandos.

“Fíli...” he said, softly this time, sadly. Then his face changed, he jerked back as if an arrow had hit him, shook his head slightly, gasped, and then rushed forward.

“Kíli,” he shouted, running towards them. “Kíli... no... You were supposed to live! How could you? You have no right to be here! Did I not say that you were reckless? That you would be a burden and a danger on this quest? Oh, I have never been so right! I gave you everything, I gave you all I could, but you just went and got yourself killed. How could you, how could you do this to me?”

Kíli had stopped in his tracks and drawn back slightly as Thorin now stood mere feet in front of them, braids and spit flying as he roared with rage. Fíli stepped forwards, hands stretched out, moving his palms downwards slowly, in appeasement.

“Thorin, we can...” he started calmly, not entirely sure what he was going to say to stop Thorin’s anger. He never got a chance to finish his sentence, as Thorin rounded on him.

“You,” Thorin growled, voice so deep it seemed to reverberate in the very stone. “Was it not your duty to protect your brother? Did I not send you with him so you could keep him safe?”

“I did my best,” Fíli said, voice breaking. Thorin would never forgive him. He had hoped, had hoped that the madness, the dragon sickness would disappear in the afterlife just like all other wounds and illnesses seemed to vanish. It probably did, he thought. All ailments were healed here. What remained was the person that had suffered them. Even death, it seemed, could not heal Thorin’s obstinacy.

“The best you could do was the destruction of our line! I raised you to be better than that,” Thorin spat. “I made sure you had enough food, and training, and a loving home. I gave you everything. Everything I did, I did for you! I laid at your feet the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth, all the treasures of Erebor at your disposal. But you threw it all away; all you did was go to your death. To rot and ruin! Dust and decay!”

Thorin`s voice hitched and Fíli saw his chance to stem the flood of anger and accusations. He took a step towards Thorin, but he sidestepped him to stand right in front of Kíli.

“You were my hope,” Thorin yelled, snarling at Kíli. “I went into battle so you could live in peace. I killed Azog so you could unite our people and rebuild our home. I died so you could lead a long and prosperous life.”

“I... I...” Kíli stammered. He seemed to be close to tears.

“You! You belong on the throne,” Thorin shouted. “You belong to Erebor!”

“I belong with my brother,” Kíli declared, voice soft, but firm.

Thorin crumbled. His hands that had been gesticulating wildly fell and hung loosely by his sides. His features, distorted in anger, slackened. He wavered on his feet. Fíli stepped forward to support him, but did not reach him in time. Thorin’s legs gave out and, not making any attempt to break his fall, he went down heavily onto the stone floor.

For a moment all was silent.

Then Thorin screamed. A wordless scream, raw and full of anguish, that seemed to come from the very stone of his heart. Fíli fell to his knees before him. He knew Kíli was by his side and hoped that his brother was all right. For the moment he had to focus on Thorin, had to attempt to comfort and calm the clearly distressed dwarf. Thorin looked at him now, broken, desperate, tears streaming down his face. He buried his head in his hands and started to sob, ugly, brutal sobs that shook his bent frame.

Fíli had never seen Thorin cry. His brother, his mother, Balin, even Dwalin, he had seen all of them cry, many times. They had had plenty of reasons to cry. Never Thorin. Thorin never broke, no matter what happened to their family, to their people, Thorin carried on, stoic, driven, never showing any weakness. And Fíli did not see any weakness now. He just saw his uncle. Fíli put his arms around him tightly, crushed their bodies together. Thorin leaned against his shoulder as he continued to sob, shaking. Fíli just held him. He was here. An arm snaked around his shoulders. He looked up and saw Kíli, tears in his eyes, kneeling by his side, putting another arm around their uncle. They were both here for Thorin. There was no weakness in the line of Durin.

They remained until Thorin’s cries subsided. He slumped against Fíli, no strength left in his body, shivering, breathing heavily. Fíli held Thorin, Kíli held Fíli. They were all in this together. Thorin lifted his head slowly, looked up at his nephews, eyes red, face wet, but a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His voice was gravelly when he spoke.

“Forgive me... I have failed you.”

Fíli adjusted his stance, gently pressing at the heads of his brother and uncle, pressing all three together. They were so close that their mingling breath was hot on his face. Thorin’s eyes were closed, but in the semi-darkness Fíli could make out Kíli looking at him, wide-eyed. He squeezed the back of his neck. He could not find it in himself to tell Thorin that there was nothing to forgive, not yet. But they had all the ages of the world to spend together now. They had their uncle back.

“I’m so glad you are safe now,” Thorin said, voice breaking again

“Mhm, except for that minor detail... the being dead thing...” Kíli said, always one to find the wrong words at the wrong time. Thorin seemed to lose all of his strength and slumped against Fíli, sobbing helplessly once more. Fíli adjusted his grip and held him, held him tight. Over his uncle’s bowed head, he glared at his brother.

“Not helping, Kíli,” he hissed. At least Kíli had the good grace to look sheepish as he gnawed on his bottom lip.

It took several minutes for Thorin to calm himself once more. He was breathing heavily as he pushed himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Fíli who quickly rose to support him. He knew how weak he had been shortly after his own death and Thorin looked to be in an even worse shape. Only his determination and great practice at being angry had carried him through so far. Thorin grabbed Fíli’s head and touched their foreheads together. It was an intimate gesture and Fíli relished it.

“You are precious to me, Fíli,” his uncle said, voice raspy. “I have done you wrong. When you... When I watched you... die... I could not... I realised I had never apologised to you...”

His voice hitched and Fíli clasped his arm firmly.

“I’m sorry, Fíli,” Thorin continued. “I have wronged you so many times. You were right all along. Thank you... thank you for being the man I could not be.”

Fíli did not answer immediately. It would take time. Thorin’s deeds and words had scarred them all deeply. But it was good to see him return to himself, to see him reclaim his sanity, to see him return to being the upright dwarf he had always been in the past.

“You were never alone,” he finally said. “We always followed you... We followed you to the end.”

“For that I am grateful,” Thorin answered. “And I regret that I have led you to such an end. You deserved better.”

“We fell defending you,” Kíli cut in, looking at Thorin with a smile. “We defend you with shield and body, no matter what. You are our mother’s brother. We will always be by your side.”

Thorin embraced both of them. They were reunited, reunited in death, but reunited nonetheless.

“How are you?” he asked, voice regaining some of its strength. “Apart from... you know... the obvious...”

They confirmed they were well and he looked relieved. Fíli pitied him. He had not led them to this intentionally. Thorin carried so much pain, so much responsibility for events that had been beyond his control.

“Have you met any... any of the others?” Thorin asked. “I saw many lying dead upon the battlefield.”

“We have not,” Fíli answered. “I reckon we are currently in a... a sort of private area. Just for our family.”

“And I am glad of it,” Thorin said with a sigh. “I wonder though... I wonder if they are...”

“I’m sure we will be able to see all of... the other new arrivals,” Fíli said earnestly.

“Yes,” Thorin said, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. “We should. I owe them that at the very least.”

Fíli wanted to urge him to tarry a little longer, to give himself a break, to gather his strength before facing anybody else. Thorin’s eyes were still red and the tears had not dried completely. But he knew that his uncle would not delay meeting his men simply for reasons of his own personal comfort. Kíli came to his aid.

“There is something you might want to see,” he said, pointing at the wall behind them. “This tapestry... it tells the story... the story of the battle.”

Thorin glanced at it for the first time. Fíli followed his glance. Where they stood the tapestry did not depict the battle. On the contrary, it showed an idyllic scene. A family, father, mother, and two dwarflings, one a babe in arms, the other scarcely taller than his father’s boots. Fíli himself was the elder. He swallowed as he looked at the small figure that was his mother. She was alone now. Her sons were spent. Her brothers. Her husband. Everybody was dead. Fíli squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He could not think about that now. He glanced at his uncle. Thorin smiled.

“My nephews,” he said, drawing them to his sides and hugging one with each arm. “My beautiful, brave nephews. You made it all worth it, every moment of it.”

Fíli watched his uncle closely as they walked along the tapestry, glancing at scene after scene. Thorin smiled when their business with the trolls came into view, bowed his head when he saw himself, a tiny woven version of himself, on the throne of Erebor. He did not avert his gaze when they reached the scene depicting Fíli’s death, but breathed deeply a couple of times and stretched out his hand, fingers hovering over the blond figure.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to face Fíli. “For your sacrifice. You gave more than I could have ever asked of you, and you gave it willingly. You protected your brother, and you protected me, to the last.”

They saw Kíli fall and Thorin did not comment on the elf that held him, simply remarked that they had had so much to live for.

When they reached the portrayal of his own death, Thorin merely looked at Bilbo and he smiled, a kind, warm smile, one that Fíli had not seen for weeks. Next to that image, the threads were moving once more.

“What is this magic?” Kíli asked.

“The magic of Vairë, the ever-weaving,” Thorin explained. “She is one of the Valar, the wife of Mandos whose halls we currently reside in. She records the stories of the world and clothes this place in her tapestries.”

As they looked on, a new scene was taking shape before their eyes. Thorin’s body lay on the ice, but he was not alone. He was surrounded by a multitude of small figures. Fíli watched his brother and uncle count them. When he saw them smile, he knew that they were all there.

“They survived!” exclaimed Kíli, pointing at the tapestry. “Bofur and Bombur are over here, and Nori. There’s Bifur as well, and Dori and Ori. Oín and Glóin made it, too. And Balin is by your side, uncle. And there, there’s Dwalin... poor Dwalin!”

“They all lived,” Thorin confirmed, unconcealed pride in his voice.

They all lived, all but the ones who were dearest to him, the ones he had set out to protect. Fíli averted his gaze.

“I’m sorry I failed to protect you, uncle,” he said.

“Don’t be. Not for me,” Thorin answered quietly. “You did not fail. I am where I should be now. I achieved what I set out to do. Our people have a home once more, and a good king to lead them; the line of Azog is destroyed, and there is peace once more. But not for me, Fíli, not for me,” he looked upon his nephew with an all-consuming sadness in his eyes. “There is too much blood on my hands. Too many lives weigh heavy on my conscience. I did not go into battle to live;, I went to redeem myself. And maybe I did, if only a little. But even if everybody forgave me, I could never forgive my own sins.”

“You cannot say that, you were ill, you are a good dwarf!” Kíli interrupted, but their uncle shook his head and raised his hand to silence him.

“I was allowed to die, to pass into legend, and who knows, I may yet find peace here. I have my goodness now. Do not take it from me.”


	3. Dwarves

“Grandfather,” Thorin exclaimed joyfully as soon as they set foot into the hall. Fíli watched him stride towards the grey-bearded dwarf, then stop awkwardly and make a motion as if to bow to him. The old dwarf, Thrór apparently, laughed jovially and pulled him into a crushing embrace instead.

Then Fíli set eyes on the second dwarf who had been waiting for them. “Da!” he shouted and ran, any sense of dignity and composure forgotten. His father laughed and caught him in his arms, picking him up easily and spinning him around in a circle, just like Fíli remembered him doing all those decades ago. When he was set back down on his feet and his father took a step back to have a good look at him, Fíli noticed that they were the same height. He might have gotten more of the Durin looks, but he was short and blond just like his father.

“My boy, my big, big boy,” Jóli said, his eyes sparkling as he pulled Fíli into another hug, and then ruffled his hair. Fíli felt like he was finally home. More so than he ever had in Erebor. He was with his dad once more and that was all that counted.

“Kíli, oh my wonderful little Kíli,” Jóli said once he had let go of Fíli, a grin as broad and infectious as his younger son’s spreading on his face. He opened his arms wide once more, ready for a welcome similar to the first. Fíli turned to look at his brother when he did not appear by his side. He did not understand why Kíli lingered.

“It is... good to see you,” Kíli stammered. “At your service... father...”

“Is he always that formal and uptight?” Jóli asked his eldest, raising an eyebrow in a way that reminded Fíli so much of his supposedly formal and uptight sibling.

“Don’t be silly, Kíli. We’re finally back with da,” he said. Kíli still looked uncomfortable and timid, which was truly a rare occurrence.

Finally Jóli understood.

“You don’t remember,” he said, walking over to Kíli, taking his hands and looking deep into his eyes. “I left you too early, my lad, and for that I am sorry. I’m here now though. And if you’ll let me, I’ll try to make up for lost time.”

Kíli looked at his father and Fíli could see tears slide down his face. It struck him that Kíli really did not remember, he really did not recall the good times they had known while their father was still alive. Jóli’s eyes were filling with tears as well.

“Oh come here, laddie,” he said, pulling his youngest into an embrace. “Come here, my wee laddie, and let your old man try and make it all better.”

Kíli was sobbing helplessly by now and Jóli cradled his head against his shoulder, soothing him gently. Fíli felt quite useless. He had comforted Kíli so often. Kíli had always told him of all of his fears. Or had he? Fíli was starting to think that he had failed his brother long before they ever reached Ravenhill. He tugged at his braids nervously. It was his responsibility as the older brother to make sure that Kíli was happy. He could never have replaced their father, he knew that, but he should have at least ensured that Kíli knew him.

His father met his eyes over Kíli’s bowed head, shot him a questioning look, then beckoned him to join into the hug. Fíli had half a mind to refuse, but thought better of it. He really did want to be close to his father — and to Kíli. He awkwardly draped one arm over Kíli’s shoulders, the other around Jóli’s hips. Kíli was still weeping, his entire body shaking. Their father whispered sweet nothings into his ear, holding on tightly to both of his sons. When Kíli’s tears did not abate, he started to hum softly. Fíli recognised an old lullaby from their childhood.

_“Coorie doon, Coorie doon,_

_Coorie doon, my darling,_

_Coorie doon the day._

_Lie doon, my dear, and in your ear,_

_To help you close your eye,_

_I'll sing a song, a slumber song,_

_A miner's lullaby...” **[1]**_

The lilting melody and soothing words had stayed with Fíli for all those decades. He closed his eyes and could almost imagine that they were back in their small cottage in the Ered Luin. He smiled. They had been happy there, a happy family.

His father had a bright tenor voice that sounded very fresh and young. For the first time, Fíli realised that Jóli was still young, as young as he remembered him being when he died. Age apparently had no power in the Halls of Mandos.

_“Your daddy coories doon my darling,_

_Doon in a three foot seam,_

_So you can coorie doon my darling,_

_Coorie doon and dream,”_

Jóli completed the last verse. He pressed a gentle kiss on each of their foreheads. Kíli raised his head then, eyes red and cheeks damp. His voice was raspy when he spoke, but he smiled nonetheless.

“I remember that,” he said.

“Of course you do, my lad,” Jóli answered. “You wanted to hear it every night. You always used to ask me for one more song, when you were just a wee one. Do you sing, Kíli?”

“Sure, and I’m way better than Fíli,” Kíli confirmed, grinning broadly by now, then allowed. “He’s the better fiddler, though.”

“I have so much to learn about you, lads,” their father said, a slight trace of sadness flickering across his face. “We’ll have to find you some fiddles so you can give us a little concert.”

“We haven’t played in so long,” Fíli admitted. “Not since we first met our burglar, seven months ago now.”

“Of course not,” Jóli said with a sigh. “I have not forgotten why you are here... We have much to talk about indeed.”

“I owe you an apology,” Thorin’s deep voice interrupted their conversation. Fíli had almost forgotten about him and Thrór. He should probably have been watching his uncle. He had still seemed a bit shaken after their previous conversation.

Jóli drew himself up to his full height, crossed his arms, and stared at Thorin.

“I do not want your apology,” he said sternly. “It is worth nothing to me.”

Fíli tensed. His father was challenging Thorin, which was never a good idea. Fíli would not allow this situation to escalate, not after he had just gotten them both back. He had held Thorin back before and he would do it again. For a few heartbeats, nobody seemed to breathe, but then Thorin lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping forward, his usual stony countenance eroding.

“My barely-bearded sons died at your side, on a quest you initiated without dire need, in a battle for a mountain whose treasure you were eager to reclaim,” Jóli said, watching Thorin crumble. “There is nothing you could apologise for here. I know what I know. My sons are grown dwarves and my wife raised them to think for themselves. If they made the decision to follow you and were willing to die for you, they had some bloody good reasons for it. I trust my sons.”

Thorin stared at him.

“But... I...” he started clumsily, but Jóli cut him off.

“You are not at fault here. I’m sure you have many deeds to answer for, but I do not blame you for my sons’ deaths. They make their own decisions and I trust their judgement,” he said earnestly, then smiled, opened his arms and embraced his brother-in-law. “It’s good to see you, Thorin. Too early, for sure, but it’s good to see you nonetheless!”

Thorin remained stiff as a spear for a good while before he relaxed into the embrace. Fíli exchanged a smile with his brother. Family. Family was everything.

Finally, they were introduced to their great-grandfather as well. Fíli had never had a grandfather nor anybody to take on that role, as most of the older generation had died before he was born due to the many trials their folk had undergone, but Thrór seemed to be everything that a grandfather should be. He welcomed them warmly, laughed loudly, and his words were full of kindness and wisdom. Fíli was looking forward to getting to know him properly.

They settled down on some low stone benches and started to retell the tale of their quest for Erebor. Fíli provided most of the narrative, but Kíli added his own far more entertaining take on various scenes, including a very accurate impersonation of the Elvenking that had Jóli and Thrór doubled over with laughter. Thorin did not laugh. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and barely joined the conversation.

“Where are Frerin and my father?” he finally asked.

“Ah, they send their regards and can’t wait to greet you themselves,” answered Jóli. When both Thorin and Fíli looked at him with knitted brows, he continued: “There have been many... new arrivals. They are in the main hall, welcoming them.”

“Then why do we tarry here? We should not delay. We are all members of the line of Durin. Why do we linger when we should be with our people in their time of need?” Thorin asked, voice stern and determined, and made to stand up. Thrór bade him halt with a raised hand and sighed.

"I deemed it... unwise for me to be there," he said, and there was a profound sadness in his tone. "There might still be some among them who remember me, none too tenderly, I would assume."

Fíli could hear the air escape from Thorin’s lungs as if he had been punched and watched his uncle fall back upon the bench.

“Grandfather,” Thorin said, suddenly sounding fragile and young. “I shall not be remembered any more fondly. I failed. I knew of the danger, I knew of the dragon sickness, and still I was weak, still I succumbed to it.”

“Oh Thorin,” the old dwarf sighed, clasping his hands. “Tell me what happened.”

Thorin told him, haltingly at first, before he gritted his teeth and launched into a warrior-like report style that Fíli had heard him adopt when relaying unsavoury information to his sister. But this was not an anecdote of a child-minding session gone wrong, resulting in a messy kitchen and two dwarflings with aching stomachs. This was the saga of the King under the Mountain losing himself in madness and nearly dooming not just his own folk, but all the free people of the North. It became apparent that what weighed most heavily on Thorin’s conscience was his personal betrayal of those closest to him. His thoughts lingered on Bilbo.

“I put that poor hobbit through so much,” Thorin concluded his tale, voice thick with emotion. “But I got the opportunity to wish him well, in the end. I sincerely hope he can lead a life full of happiness and plenty. It was not much compared to all my terrible deeds, but at least I apologised to him.”

Thorin fell silent, burying his face in his hands. For a while, all that could be heard was his heavy breathing as he fought to control his feelings. Fíli heard his great-grandfather’s voice next, warm and caring, not at all reminiscent of the gold-crazed king he had heard stories about.

“Then you did, what I never could,” the old dwarf said slowly, deliberately. “You won, Thorin. You defeated the dragon.”

Thorin did not utter a word, but when he looked up there was desperation written on his features. He looked to be in such great torment that Fíli felt as if his very soul was being crushed on the anvil by a blacksmith’s hammer. Even in death it would take Thorin time to acknowledge his eventual victory. There would be long conversations to be had before he had any hope of seeing more than the suffering his madness had caused. But hopefully Thrór had sown a seed of hope with his encouraging verdict.

The silence stretched on and became uncomfortable, but Fíli was unsure how to end it. He was afraid that anything he said would trigger an intense emotional response from Thorin. While he had shown vulnerability before, that had been merely in front of his nephews and Fíli did not want to drag him back to that place of despair in the presence of any other witnesses. Kíli finally ended the silence when he stretched his legs and chuckled.

“Man, you should’ve seen Dáin. He was magnificent!” he exclaimed, grinning. “He rides up, bold as anything and tells them elves to _sod off!”_

“Ah, that little ginger menace,” Thrór said. “Does he still play with piglets?”

Jóli looked astonished, but his sons laughed.

“If you want to call it that,” Kíli answered with a chortle. “He rides to war on a wild boar. Piglet has grown up a bit, it’s quite the sight, I tell you! It’s armoured and everything. Splendid beast! Oh, and even better, Dáin called that prissy Elven king a _faithless woodland sprite!_ It was glorious!”

Thrór and Jóli guffawed at that and soon launched into a series of humorous anecdotes about elves. Fíli thought it needless to point out that they had been allies in the battle and would have all been slaughtered without Thranduil and his forces. There would be time for politics later. For now he joined in with the laughter and contributed a few stories of his own.

Thorin smiled at the appropriate times, but did not join in with the general merriment. Fíli watched him out of the corner of his eye. His glance was on his relatives, but his thoughts seemed far away, as he clenched and unclenched his fists in his lap.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Thorin said curtly, getting up abruptly and striding back through the door that led to the chamber where they had awoken.

“Thorin! Wait up, son,” Thrór exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. Fíli was on his feet already, holding the old dwarf back.

“Peace, great-grandfather, give him a moment, I pray you,” he said. “This has not been easy for him.”

“Did he really... was he himself again in the end?” Thrór asked hesitantly.

“Yes, he was,” Fíli confirmed. “Which is, in a way, also the reason we are all here.”

They looked at him in astonishment.

“We did not fall fighting for the gold,” Fíli elaborated. “We fell in defence of the assembled armies, Dwarves, Men and Elves, outnumbered as they were. We fell taking out Azog’s command post in the hope that his demise would discourage or at least confuse his troops.”

“In the end it was all about the gold though, I mean you were defending that mountain after all,” Jóli said.

“We were defending the mountain, but the mountain is more than simply a treasure chest. It holds a strategic position,” Fíli answered. Thrór was nodding along.

“If the orcs took Erebor, they would have both the stronghold and the resources to terrorise the entire North,” he explained.

“It was not Thorin’s sickness that lead to our deaths,” Fíli reiterated. “He regained his sanity in time for us to join the battle. We did not give our lives for gold. We gave our lives to defend him, to defend the freedom of all the people of the North that he was fighting for.”

 

[1] Scottish: coorie = snuggle or cower, doon = down. This lullaby was written and recorded by Matt McGinn. It does make a good lullaby, but as an adult you can clearly hear the anger at the dreadful working conditions of the miners. As I see Jóli as a rather „working-class“ dwarf, it seemed an appropriate song for him.


	4. Warriors

He had witnessed his grandfather’s decay, had seen his descent into madness, had watched the corruption of the once-great king. He had known exactly what the gold sickness could do to a dwarf. He had been warned and had prepared himself, had steeled his will against it, had been certain that he would not suffer the same fate. ‘I am not my grandfather’ he had declared grandly, had said it to Gandalf, to his sister, to Balin, to anyone who dared to question him, but most of all, he had said it to himself. He had been aware of the danger every step of the way, had known the warning signs of the disease, and had frequently questioned his own motives only to find that he cared so much more about his family, his people, than about the treasure. And still he had failed. He had not been able to remain Thorin, had failed as soon as he first laid eyes upon the gold. Something in his head had broken. He had failed that test and he had failed his people. He had defiled the memory of his father and grandfather, dishonoured the line of Durin, abandoned his company, betrayed his closest friends, and failed his nephews.

He had murdered them. It might as well have been his arm that dealt the deathly blows. Fíli had died a sacrifice to the gold and the madness, just like Thrór. Killed by the same orc, but more importantly, for the same reason – because Thorin had failed. No matter what Jóli said, Thorin had been his nephews’ leader and he had lead them to their death. Dís would not be as forgiving as her husband. Dís... He had failed her more than anyone else. He had taken everything from her. He had been the one to deliver the news to her when their father had gone missing, when their grandfather and their brother had fallen at Azanulbizar, and when Jóli had been killed. Who would tell her of her sons’ death? Who would hold her and comfort her now? There was nobody left. He had taken every single family member from her. He had failed his sister.

Precious Kíli. So young, too young to be dead. He had never courted a woman, had never had a chance to become a master of his trade, had never even grown a proper beard, but now he was here, sitting in the Halls of Mandos, telling his silly stories and smiling his stupid smile, that not even death had been able to wipe from his face. His death, his horrific death that he had to face without any of his kin at his side. Thorin had left him behind, had taken his brother from him, had abandoned him; he had lead him to his death and had not even witnessed it when he fell. He had not been there for him, this promising young warrior, his sister-son, the sunshine of his darkest days. Thorin should have been with him, should have protected him, but he had lost him out of his sight and Kíli had died. Just like Frerin. He had lost Frerin as well, and had only found him again when it was too late. That was when his days had turned to perpetual darkness, when there had been no laughter for many decades. Frerin and Kíli. He had loved them both – he had killed them both.

He had to calm himself. He had to control his thoughts, had to school his features, had to be his usual stoic self. Any moment now, somebody would come after him, would make sure that he was all right. Of course he was, he was fine. They were all joking, laughing; they had all come here with a clear conscience, and would never be able to understand that some wounds were too deep to ever really heal. Even his grandfather, who Thorin had hoped would understand, insisted that he had won, that he was a good dwarf after all. But he was not. Despite his earlier words, Thorin now felt like he might never again have his goodness, not even here, in the Halls of Mandos.

Thorin took deep breaths. He could hear voices behind the door. They seemed to be arguing, probably discussing who should go and collect him. It would be Fíli. Thorin himself would have sent Fíli who had proven time and again that he had a smart head on his shoulders, that he understood. Fíli would have made a good king if he had ever had the opportunity to be crowned king. Fíli was level-headed and incorruptible, he was caring and kind, a true servant of the people, so unlike his uncle. Fíli would come and fetch him and Thorin wanted to be ready for him. He took a few more deep breaths and turned his back to the door just to give himself a moment longer.

The door opened and steps could be heard. A dwarf, but a light one, one of the lads, obviously.

“Thorin!”

Not one of the lads, but a voice that he had not heard in over a hundred and forty years, a voice that had once made him smile and now made his heart freeze. Thorin could not answer, could not move, as he stood as stiff and silent as one of the stone columns.

“Brother!”

The word seemed to echo in the emptiness of his heart. Then he was being embraced, felt a lithe dwarf pressed against his body, strong arms around his shoulders, saw dark, unruly hair, heard a voice –that voice–chattering away excitedly. Thorin did not move. He just stood there, arms hanging limply at his sides. He had thought once before that he still had a brother, had given in to that ludicrous hope for just a moment before it was cruelly crushed on the anvil of reality.

It took Frerin a while before he perceived just how passive Thorin was. He pushed away then, putting both hands on his older brother’s shoulders and smiling up at him. He was only a little shorter than Thorin with the same sharp nose and dark hair. His short beard and moustache were sparse, showing just how young he was. So young and so happy and so energetic and so... alive.

“You are alive,” Thorin croaked, barely able to even form the words.

“Nay, and neither are you, more’s the pity,” Frerin said lightly and grinned. His grin was so broad that it reminded Thorin of Kíli, or rather Kíli’s grin had always reminded him of Frerin. Maybe he had sometimes been soft on the lad because of it. But he had lead him to his death nonetheless, had allowed him to be butchered, alone and desperate, while he was not watching, exactly the same way Frerin had died.

Frerin looked just like Thorin remembered, just like he had when Thorin had found him in the woods near Mirrormere, looking so peaceful as he rested beneath a yew tree. But now he was talking and moving and touching him.

Thorin could not find the words to voice his feelings, so instead he embraced his brother, crushed him against his chest so hard that he probably would have damaged a less sturdy creature, or rather one that was not already dead. Frerin just chuckled at his sudden fervour. He was breathing, his heart was beating, he seemed unharmed, but still Thorin needed confirmation, needed to know that he was not giving in to a false hope again, the desperate hope that he had not lost his brother. He cradled his brother’s head in his hand, gently at first, but then pressing against it with his palm. He felt the softness of his hair and then the hard skull, dry, unmoving bone. It was true. But then he felt it again, softness, warmth, a sticky liquid leaking through his fingers.

Thorin staggered backwards, breaking their embrace, staring in horror at his right hand as he stretched it as far away from his body as possible. Blood streaming over his fingers, fragments of bone and pieces of hair mingling with the gore that he knew to be his brother’s brains. He fell to his knees, retching just like he had all those years ago. Nothing came up. He had been fasting for too long, he had been in a battle, but not that one, not Azanulbizar, not the one in which he had lost his little brother, the other battle, the one for Erebor, the one in which he had lost his sister-sons and his own life. This time Frerin held him, gathered his hair, and stroked his back, just like Dwalin, all those decades ago in the forest.

“What happened at Kheled-zâram[1]?” Frerin asked.

“You don’t remember?” Thorin asked, astonished.

Frerin shook his head.

“I remember that the vanguard was driven into the woods,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut in recollection. “We were outnumbered, there were orcs everywhere, but we stood our ground, at least for a while. I was doing quite well, but I had lost sight of most of the others, so I tried to make my way to that one massive tree, to have my back against it so they couldn’t surround me. After that, I don’t remember anything... just that I woke up here with a bit of a headache.”

“A bit of a headache,” Thorin repeated tonelessly. “You did not have much of a head left.”

Frerin shrugged.

“Nobody could ever tell me how I died,” he said, then pointed at the tapestry. “Even on there it looks like I just fell asleep in the middle of the forest.”

Thorin looked up and saw it, saw the scene that was forever engraved on his mind, his little brother resting against that yew tree.

“You looked so peaceful,” he said, clasping Frerin’s hand just to ensure that he was still there. “I did not expect... It was after the battle. It took us too long to realise... there was so much carnage everywhere, so many had died, and at first I did not realise that nobody had ever emerged from those woods. I had seen how grandfather... but not you, I never saw you...”

Frerin was kneeling next to him and he was here, he was real, and his eyes were full of tears and Thorin was crying as he continued the tale.

“Dwalin and I, we went into those woods together... and we knew... his father and my brother were in there and we knew it was not going to be... we just knew that you were dead.”

Thorin stopped and breathed deeply, collecting himself. It was nothing, nought but a memory, but his voice was still breaking.

“As we walked we saw only corpses, orcs and dwarves alike, but all dead. There was no hope as we went deeper and deeper into that forest and found none alive. But then I saw you and you were... you were perfect... unharmed, no injuries, just sitting there, leaning against that yew tree...” Thorin hurried through the last words, as he could not suppress a sob any longer. Frerin waited patiently for him to speak again.

“I had hope then. It was rash, but I had hope. Just for a moment I hoped that you were just unconscious, that my dark premonitions were false, that you were alive,” Thorin continued. “I was so stupid!”

He buried his face in his hands. He was crying so much today, so many tears for so many deaths. Frerin did not judge – he never had – he was just there.

“I held you, but you were all... limp, and I did not know why and then I saw it... your head... your poor head, it was... there was so much blood” Thorin said haltingly, then broke off, staring at his hand again, once again feeling the warm stickiness, feeling the small pieces of bone stick to his fingers. Dwarven bones that were never meant to break, that were frequently used as weapons. Frerin winced and involuntarily touched the back of his head.

“That explains the headache. And I thought our skulls were meant to be tough,” he muttered, then realising just how distressed Thorin was, he took his older brother’s hand and wrapped both of his around it.

“Thank you for coming after me,” he said earnestly.

“But I was too late,” Thorin whispered.

“You found me, and you were there to recover my body, you did not leave me to be eaten by wild beasts, and now you have told me how I died,” Frerin replied softly. “That means a lot to me, brother.”

"I burned you," Thorin spat, still unable to hide his disgust at his own deeds, even after all these decades.

"Didn't do me any harm now, did it?" Frerin said.

"I wanted to bury you, I should have buried you. I owed you that much at least," Thorin started, but his brother interrupted him.

"You did what you could under those circumstances. Nobody blames you, Thorin, nobody but yourself," he said sadly. A sob escaped Thorin at those words. Nobody indeed, they all seemed to think him a good dwarf despite all the evidence to the contrary.

They embraced, clinging to each other like drowning men. Neither one of them had been alone, either had had family around him, but that was different from having a brother by your side. They were brothers and they were finally reunited. It felt to Thorin like the dawn of a new day even as night lingered on his mind.

“What happened... afterwards?” Frerin finally asked.

“We went back to Dunland, then the Ered Luin eventually,” Thorin told him.

“No,” Frerin interrupted. “I mean right after you... found me.”

Thorin was back in the forest that was so eerily quiet, almost peaceful. He was cowering on the ground, retching violently, the image of his brother’s crushed skull burned onto his eyes. Dwarven skulls were weapons; dwarven skulls could not be broken, but Frerin’s had shattered like glass. Steps behind him, a voice calling his name, the sound of a heavy weight being dropped, somebody was running, and then there was a hand on his neck, gathering his hair, stroking his back. Dwalin. His touch was gentle and when Thorin finally looked up he could see tears in his eyes, but he could also see that Dwalin was drenched in blood. Not the black orc blood they had all been wading in, this was red blood, dwarven blood, Fundin’s blood. Dwalin shook his head. Thorin could not even muster the energy to do that. He just stared at his hand, encrusted with the life and the mind of his brother. He vomited again.

Dwalin gently took his hand and wiped it on a bushel of grass, then on his trousers, which did not help much. Thorin could not will his limbs into action. He cowered, overcome by grief, as Dwalin removed his armour, took off his shirt, tore it to pieces and wrapped the makeshift bandages around Frerin’s head. As soon as the butchery was hidden, his younger brother looked peaceful once more, just a sleeping young dwarf, not one that had been brutally murdered.

Thorin only got to his feet because Dwalin lifted him, only stayed on his feet because Dwalin held him. He knew that he had to be strong, for the sake of his father, for the sake of all those who had survived the massacre of Azanulbizar. Dwalin tenderly picked up Frerin’s body and settled him in Thorin’s arms, carefully positioning the abused head, before he went to collect his own burden. Dwalin guided him, caught him when he stumbled, and together they emerged from the forest, each carrying their dead kin. There were no more tears after that, no more weakness, only strength and determination almost till the end of Thorin’s life.

Thorin finished his tale and they sat in silence, then embraced once more.

“You have a real friend in Dwalin,” Frerin finally said. “I’m glad I left you in such good hands.”

“More than a friend,” Thorin answered, and then paused. _You have always been my king._ His hands clenched into fists. A friend, always a friend since their earliest childhood, a friend that would follow him anywhere, even into battle, even when he rallied their desperate, failing forces at Azanulbizar. That was no particular leadership on his part – that was just Dwalin doing what he had always done. With sudden clarity Thorin understood what Dwalin had meant and he was left gasping, clutching his chest. _You have always been my king. You used to know that._ He knew it now.

“What is it, Thorin? What about Dwalin?” Frerin asked, worried. Thorin felt renewed tears slide down his face. Nothing about Dwalin, nothing but the fact that Thorin had betrayed him, that he had hardly been able to keep himself from killing him, that he had left him behind without as much as an apology. But Frerin did not need to know that, Frerin needed to know that he had indeed left him in the best hands.

“We went into those woods as the closest of friends,” Thorin explained to his brother. “We walked out again as... as a king and his most loyal subject. He swore allegiance to me there, without a word or any special gesture, even though father was our real leader. He saw me at my lowest, broken and miserable, and he decided that he would follow me, that he would protect me, not just in the way his line always protected ours, but because he loved me. Somehow, despite everything, he loved me, and he did so till the end.”

“And he still loves you now,” Frerin said, gently touching foreheads with Thorin and smiling. “Just like I never stopped loving you.”

Faces appeared in Thorin’s mind, his nephews, his brother-in-law and his sister-sons, waiting in the hall beyond. They would smile at him when he returned. The last person he had laid eyes on before he died, Bilbo, the hobbit he had attempted to throw from the ramparts, he had looked at him with such fondness. He recognised the determination and affection in the eyes of the other dwarves of his company when they followed him, their mad king, into battle. He saw the instant warmth and fondness when he reunited with his cousin Dáin, however briefly. The tenderness of his farewell from Dís. Thorin smiled.

“I have been fortunate,” he said. “Despite my many failings, I have known so much love.”

                                                                            

 

 

[1] Mirrormere


	5. Lovers

Warm breaths caressed her skin like the hot air one might blow from a freshly brewed cup of tea. The tip of a nose touched her cheek, then nuzzled into her moustache. Her moustache was braided; she could feel it as the muscles in her cheek twitched, stretching the intricate patterns, the braids reaching from her lips to her jaw and up all the way to her ears. She had favoured that pattern long ago when she had been newly married, when she had no ornaments but her jet-black hair to adorn herself with. The hair that had turned white as chalk and had started to abandon her during the final decades of her life when she had mountains of jewellery at her disposal, but would not touch a single piece of it.

A beard tickled her face; warm air now being blown onto her mouth. Without warning, sharp teeth nipped at her lower lip, gripping a tiny fold of flesh and tugging softly before releasing it again. A tongue brushed over the spot soothingly, then followed the outline of her lips all the way around her mouth. Lips were sucking on her lower lip, then the tongue darted out, teasing her, gently worming its way to her teeth. Lips were claiming hers, smooth lips to contrast with the scratch of beard on beard. She relented then, opening her own lips, giving herself over to the invader, that probing tongue that immediately dashed forwards, curiously exploring her teeth, tickling her gums. A hand came up to cup her face; a large hand with callouses from hard labour, but still so gentle, so kind and caring. She pressed her cheek against it and breathed in deeply, savouring the familiar scent, the unique flavour that reignited the fire in her heart. She opened her mouth fully, only to have it hungrily devoured by the insistent assailant. Their tongues entwined and slithered around each other like snakes. It was no fight for dominance, but a dance, a lively swirling and swaying set to their very own music. It was hot and it was messy, but it was life. There was no need for air, no need for anything but their love, eagerly exploring the once familiar caverns of their mouths, mapping out every part of those long-lost treasures.

“Oh get a room!”

The interruption was rude and sudden, and they both stopped their movement. Their lips stilled and the other withdrew slowly, decision clearly tinged with regret, giving her lips one last playful tug. She arched up slightly, unwilling to let go of these almost forgotten riches. Somewhere else, a sharp slap resonated accompanied by a dramatic “Ouch!” and somebody hissing “Shut it!”

“Behave for your amad, you little rascals,” he said and his voice made shivers run down her spine.

Dís opened her eyes and looked straight into the smoky quartz of her husband’s eyes. They were framed by his rich golden brows and the surface of his skin crinkled slightly as he smiled down onto her. She wanted to reach up, wanted to touch him, to feel him, to assure herself that she had really found the fire of her soul again, but he caught her hand, interlinked their fingers and brought their hands up to his mouth, tenderly kissing each of her knuckles.

“That was the last thing I ever heard you say,” she whispered, her voice toneless.

“I know,” Jóli breathed just as quietly. They had had almost a century to contemplate all of those little details, almost a century to treasure tiny words that had been spoken in anticipation of nothing more than a day apart. She had spent almost a century without that voice, without those eyes, without his kisses, but never without his love.

She moved to sit up from where she lay, but found herself unable to do so, a weakness set in her bones that was not the familiar mixture of aches and pains, but rather the heaviness after a long and peaceful sleep, the kind that refreshes and rejuvenates. There were hands on her shoulders, an arm across her back, carefully lifting her, raising her up and steadying her in a sitting position. When she tore her glance from her beloved, she saw another golden-haired Dwarf, sapphire eyes mirroring hers.

“Fíli,” she said, her voice catching in her throat.

“And Kíli!” shouted her youngest, jumping onto the bed next to her and slinging his arms around her neck.

Kíli was hugging her fiercely, exuberantly, while Jóli continued to hold her hands just as tightly as her heart, and Fíli had settled in behind her, allowing her to lean against him as she grew accustomed to this new body, this new existence she had just entered. An existence without aches and pains, but with her beloved family. She felt like she was flying, floating on a cloud of happiness.

She had no way of telling how much time had passed until they helped her to her feet. Time did not seem to pass as usual here in the Halls of Mandos, in fact she doubted that time had any meaning here at all. And why would it? They had all the ages of the world now; all eternity to share with her favourite Dwarves, and no accident and no battle would come between them this time. Eventually, she stood, with Jóli’s arm across her shoulders and her sons around her. All eternity was theirs.

“You know, we did get a room,” Jóli pointed out as they stepped through a lofty doorway. “Now if you two hadn’t come barging in...”

“We hadn’t seen her for ages!” Kíli said.

“You had her for all those years when I was stuck here with nothing but the tapestries!”

“Sounds like you did a whole lot of tapestry-gazing.”

Dís listened to their squabbling and was content. Her sons, who had bidden Jóli goodbye at such an early age, had finally won back the one who had been missing for all the important stages of their lives. The distraught little boys in front of an unyielding tomb had grown into fine young Dwarves, and finally they had what nobody had been able to replace—a father.

She smiled at Fíli. Her eldest had an amused smirk on his face, watching his father and brother bicker as he had probably done every day since they had been reunited. Every day since that dreadful autumn day... that day that had been such an ordinary one for her, going about her daily business in the Ered Luin without an inkling of the tragedy that had befallen her family. They said that you felt it in the stone of your soul when somebody you loved died. She never had. She might have expected some deaths; she had expected heavy losses during the war, but she had been caught by surprise when they returned without Frerin. There had been nothing to prepare her for Jóli’s death. After a day like any other, she had been preparing dinner with Kíli on her hip when the door opened and instead of Jóli, Thorin had stood in front of her, always the harbinger of bad news. It had been many weeks until she had learned of the battle for Erebor. Once again, she had expected to hear bad news, but she had expected to hear them from Fíli, or from Kíli in case his brother had actually ascended to the throne of Erebor.

Fíli seemed to sense her dark mood, for he took her by the hand and directed her towards an elaborate tapestry. Invisible fingers were weaving a complicated pattern as they watched. Line by line, a scene took shape in front of their eyes, a scene so familiar to her and yet so far removed from the present. The tapestry displayed the green marble of Erebor and in front of it a body, her own body that her soul had finally left behind, immaculately dressed, her white hair intricately braided. She sighed and felt a lump in her throat. The figure in the tapestry was too indistinct to really tell, but she knew that she had grown old long before her time, a fragile creature, a mere shadow of the dwarrowdam she used to be, the dwarrowdam she was once more here in the Halls of Mandos.

“You are well-guarded,” Fíli said, his voice soft as he pointed to another figure on the tapestry, a figure who stood next to her prone form.

“Dwalin,” Dís breathed and reached out for him instinctively, then quickly withdrew her hand. She looked at Jóli apologetically. “He has been a good friend to me,” she explained.

Jóli smiled and squeezed her shoulders more tightly. “I’m glad of it,” he said, pressing a soft kiss onto the tip of her nose. “Dwalin is a good Dwarf.”

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but could not keep a tear from escaping her. Fíli embraced her tightly, caressing her hair as she pressed her face into his shoulder. She breathed deeply, inhaling his familiar scent and thinking back to all the times when he had held her, when he had been her rock, even while he was still the size and age of a pebble. She had tried to keep her troubles from him, but there was no way to hide from his caring nature. Fíli could sense the slightest bit of distress and had been able to do so since he was a small boy. She shook herself out of her reverie.

“This is not a time for tears,” she said and smiled at her boys, all three of them.

It really wasn’t a time for tears. On the contrary, it was the time of many happy reunions. Dís got to meet her parents and grandparents, all restored to full health, both mentally and physically. She only let go of Jóli’s hand when it came to greeting her mother. She was surprised that she recognised her immediately, given that she had such few and distant memories of her. Eydís was as thin as a blade, and Dís recognised much of Kíli’s build in her. She was a gorgeous dwarrowdam, her hair and beard braided close to the skin at first, then being released into a mass of luxurious curls. But most of all, she was her long-lost mother. Dís let herself feel small and innocent in her embrace, her many decades of suffering brushed away by her touch. All the pain she had experienced since the dragon came and took her mother from her was erased in that moment, as they touched foreheads and whispered sweet words of a love that had endured a lifetime apart. She was more hesitant with her father. She had taken care of him when the madness had clouded his brain, had born much of his rage while Thorin tried to establish their people in the Ered Luin. Now she was wary. But her mother encouraged her and Thráin held out his arms to catch her the way he had when she was just a little girl, and finally Dís went and let herself be caught in her father’s arms.

“Forgive me, mamarlûna[1],” he whispered, using a nickname that had been buried so long ago. “I did not know what I was doing.”

And she found it in herself to forgive him. He was himself again, was the strong warrior and loving father from her childhood, not the violent madman of his later years, when exile, poverty, and loss had driven him to despair.

Her grandparents were there as well, and death had even softened Thrór, so it was a joyous occasion indeed. None of the reunions rivalled the joy of meeting her brother again. Dís squealed in a very girlish manner when she spotted him and ran towards him all tiredness forgotten. The lithe young Dwarf grinned and caught her under the arms, lifting her high into the air and twirling her around. For once, Dís did not swat his hands away, did not chide him for his childish actions, but simply laughed, enjoying his merry nature. They were both laughing when he finally set her down. His blue eyes were sparkling with mirth, and she felt happiness bubble up in her, fluttering and shimmering like boiling quicksilver.

“Good to have you back, little Díssy,” Frerin said, still holding onto her as if she might evaporate. She put her hand onto her head and moved it forwards, hovering a tiny distance above his hair.

“Think I’ve got a fingerbreadth on you by now,” she said with a wink. He was so, so young, much younger than Kíli had been, with just a soft fluff for a beard. He laughed merrily, and leaned forwards to whisper into her ear.

“If I try real hard, I can still see you as a little girl,” he said. “You can be whatever age I want you to be when I see you here.”

On some level that registered as an interesting fact and an explanation as to why her parents and grandparents had looked so young, but Dís did not want to focus on facts now, not when she was finally caught up in so many positive emotions.

“Oh don’t,” she said instead, pretending to shudder. “I was awfully spotty and annoying back then.”

“And you were still my favourite sister,” Frerin replied, crinkling his nose as he laughed.

“More importantly, I was your only sister, so it doesn’t take much to be your favourite,” she teased.

“Pity the same can’t be said for being your favourite brother,” Frerin said.

She shuddered for real then and a dark shadow seemed to fall upon her. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye, had seen him linger in the background and had consciously ignored him.

“Say hello to him,” Frerin said.

Dís shook her head. No good could come of that.

“Please, Díssy,” Frerin urged. “He has been blaming himself for all those years.”

“As he should,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“Talk to him.”

There were so many reasons why she couldn’t, why she shouldn’t. She had nothing to say to him, nothing at all. She had wanted to talk to him, back in the early years, but she did not know what to say now, or rather she knew too well what she wanted to say. She did not want to spoil their wonderful reunion. There was no point in it, no point at all, not when she could spend her time with her parents and her husband and her sons and with Frerin. No reason to talk to him. She hated him, she really did. Her thoughts were flitting back and forth between that and the fact that her sons had died because of his stupid quest, that they had died because of him, that he had killed them. She knew she had to compose herself, but her thoughts kept going round and round like a grindstone.

Suddenly there was a hand on her shoulder and a deep voice spoke her name. Her reaction was pure instinct, no conscious thought slowing her muscles. In the blink of an eye, she wheeled around and planted her right hand firmly on her attacker’s face.

Thorin did nothing to shield himself.

It felt like a punch to the stomach to see him again. Dís gave herself no time to recover.

“Why?” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “Who gave you the right? Why?? Not my sons, you rat!”

All the rage, all the anger that she had carried within her for twenty-one years broke free in one fell swoop. She kept shouting, insulting her oldest brother in every manner conceivable, but mostly she kept coming back to the one question that had kept her up at night and downcast during the day for so long:

_Why?_

Thorin did not respond.

It was a one-sided battle. They were all behind her, around her, while Thorin stood alone.

Why did he lead her sons to their deaths? Why did he die? Why did he ever set out to reclaim Erebor? Why did he succumb to madness? There were so many questions and in her mind they tumbled one over the other, the lines between them blurring until she could not make out the individual questions any more and just kept asking _Why?_

“Mamarlûna...” said her father.

She looked towards him and saw him extend his hands in a placating gesture. Her mother was at his side, but her eyes were filled with understanding. Frerin on the other hand stood flabbergasted.

“Why, Thorin? Why did you take my sons from me?”

“Darling...” Jóli interrupted. She ignored him.

“How could you? My sons, Thorin, _my sons!!”_

“Amad...” Kíli said. She ignored him as well.

“What gave you the right to sacrifice them for your vanity?” she shouted at the still unmoving Thorin.

Fíli gently pulled her back.

“Amad,” he said evenly, not heeding her struggling. “He did nothing of the sort. We went willingly, Kíli and I. We went into battle not because of Thorin, but because we wanted to. We knew how high the stakes were and we risked our lives willingly. We lost our gamble and for that I am sorry, but we did so out of our own free will. We went into battle with Thorin, but not because of him; on the contrary, we would have gone in spite of him.”

His quiet voice was water to the flame of her pain. She looked into his eyes and saw only the truth. Behind him, Kíli nodded earnestly. Fíli had never been one to tell lies; if anything, his honesty had gotten him into trouble. And now he took responsibility for it all, for her pain, for their loss, for everything that had haunted her and it left her stunned.

Jóli put his hands on her shoulders.

“You raised them well,” he said.

She had raised them well, had raised them to be fine young Dwarves, but in the end she had raised them only for death, a valiant death on the battlefield, but a premature death nonetheless. Their love and kind words had robbed her rage of its fuel, but she could not simply forget the suffering of more than two decades. She stared at Thorin. Her eldest brother stood with his head bowed, hands hanging loosely by his side. He seemed shrunken, somehow diminished. The sight of him ignited a tiny spark of pity inside her heart. She tried to squash it, but it persisted, small but stubborn. She was with her sons now, her family reunited. Thorin however remained alone.

Frerin tugged on her hand lightly and pulled her towards Thorin. She resisted for a moment, but found herself unable to continue to do so. They were her brothers after all, no matter how stupid, they were still her brothers. Frerin took one of Thorin’s hands and linked their fingers. Thorin’s hand was life-less in hers. For a moment she just stood, touching him for the first time since that night many years ago when they had said their farewells on the mountainside, then she gently stroked his fingers with her thumb. His fingers twitched and when she looked up, her glance met his. He looked insecure, questioning, something she had not seen on him often.

Frerin had a hand on each of their backs and pushed them closer together.

“Forgiven?” he asked.

Dís looked at Thorin. He was a Dwarf in his prime, the grey gone from his hair and beard, his body powerful and chiselled features handsome as ever, but there was a pain in his eyes, a pain that not even the magic of the Halls of Mandos could heal. She pitied him.

They looked into each other’s eyes and simultaneously shook their heads. Frerin frowned.

“Not yet,” Dís said.

“But you will forgive him?”

“I’ll try.”

Thorin nodded. “I have all the ages of the world to earn your forgiveness,” he said, his voice raspy and constricted with tears.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.

“I love you, big brother.”

Surprise lit up his eyes, and then a slow smile brought warmth to his features.

“I love you too, little sister.”

 

[1] She who is loved — Khuzdul stolen, as usual, from those with a talent for languages, in this case from Meysun’s „King of Carven Stone“ (which you should totally read).


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